


It's The Great Pumpkin, Watson-Holmes!

by GeekishChic



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Actually Really Short, Again, Drunk Writing, Fluff, Halloween, Happy Family, I know, Parentlock, angst if you squint, sorry - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-21
Updated: 2014-10-21
Packaged: 2018-02-22 02:05:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2490470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GeekishChic/pseuds/GeekishChic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John tries to get Sherlock and the kids to do something normal for Halloween. Sherlockian spins ensue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's The Great Pumpkin, Watson-Holmes!

**Author's Note:**

> I can't decide whether or not vodka is my friend.

 

John figured himself the luckiest bastard on the face of the earth and thanked any deity that would listen at every opportunity. This was because he defied just about every statistic. It would be different if it was one or two, but John had lost count of the elements of perfection that was his mad existence. It was because he fully accepted the ragged edges that sometimes plagued the many smooth curves of the life he'd built with his partner in every sense of the word.

 

They thought that children would settle them a bit, but, as soon a Sean and Willow came along via anonymous surrogate(and Mycroft's reluctantly accepted help), it was just a different kind of adrenaline rush, a new sense of lurking danger. They were literally one of each, a boy and a girl, fair-haired and dark, stocky and lean. They were perfect. But they were also both insanely intelligent, and depended inherently on each other, complimenting each other in whatever their pursuits. 

 

So the excitement would always hit hardest whenever he arrived home from the surgery. He literally never knew what was waiting for him on the other side of the door to flat B. Sometimes it was a scene of perfect domesticity, on Sherlock's lap in his chair being read to(from a scientific volume) or playing in front of the now gated fire whilst Sherlock serenaded them on the violin. Other times, it was a mad dash to find a "trained" lab rat before it escaped, a pile of his old most comfortable jumpers sliced to bits with scissors, or that one time where Sherlock had them in the bath, scrubbing them within an inch of their life in a failed attempt to remove the green that covered every inch of their visible skin. They had to wait a full week for it to wear off and having to deal with bored toddlers was bad enough when they were actual, chronological toddlers, but a Sherlock restricted from new cases the entire time was a nightmare. He had other things, experiments and whatnot he was able to do, but he wouldn't speak to John for the first full day after John pointedly told Lestrade to keep everything he had to himself, and tell the others to do the same until the children weren't green anymore.

 

So, actually, this wasn't that bad in comparison. At least they were in the kitchen this time. Still...

 

"Sherlock!" The man himself jumped as his name was shouted. Willow bolted upright where she lay on the kitchen table, her innards sliding into her lap with a disgusting squelching noise, long black curls ringleted and falling past her shoulders. Sherlock was elbow deep in a giant bowl of John-didn't-want-to-know-what and Sean was knelt on a chair beside him in a worse state. He seemed to be in full Victorian dress and almost as covered in blood as his twin sister.

 

"John, you really shouldn't do that. Especially this time of year. We'll have to start again, dearest. They weren't properly affixed yet and Daddy has gone and spoiled the arrangement. "

 

"Daddy," Willow warned before laying back with a dramatic sigh.

 

"Nice going, Daddy," little Sean piped in, pursing his lips and shaking his little blond head.

 

"What...," John had to gather himself again, take another deep breath before asking what he needed to know. "What exactly... are you doing? Why on earth are my six year old children looking like bloody Jack The Ripper and his latest victim?" Ire seemed to have been forgotten for the excitement. Sean's grin was almost infectious, but John barely maintained his disgruntlement, dropping his case to cross his arms against the pure sunshine that was his family's obvious elation.

 

"Well done, Daddy!" Sean cried. "We're getting our costumes together and Father is trying to figure out a mechanism in order to have Willow's guts spill out a little at every house!"

 

"Father  _has_  figured out a mechanism," Sherlock corrected absently, doing something that looked disturbingly like working on an android with features way too close to that of a human. John shook his head and pulled off his coat, tossing it over the back of his chair.

 

"My six year-old daughter will  _not_  be dressed as a Victorian *prostitute*," John declared, whispering the last word.

 

"But... I am already, Daddy," she said sensibly. John went back into the kitchen in an attempt to make some tea, but was sidetracked by the awe he experienced seeing the pouch like mechanism up close. 

 

"Why can I be a serial killer but Willow can't be a prostitute?" asked Sean, perplexed. An additional two pairs of expectant blue-green eyes landed on him.

 

"Oh my God! You shouldn't be a serial killer either! I didn't mean-"

 

"John, it's perfectly fine. The children know all about it and when I presented them the idea of-"

 

"Why couldn't you just... carve a pumpkin like normal people?" He went on making his tea at this point because he had to do something with his hands. They'd been covered in what was inside people all day as a nasty strain of influenza was milling about. He'd be damned if he'd be covered at home, too, when it wasn't real. Realistic as hell, though.

 

"Normal's boring," came the chorus of nearly identical voices. John had to close his eyes and throw his head back to maintain what little sanity he had left at that point. He allowed them to putter around for another half hour whilst he enjoyed his tea in front of the fire, skimming some of the articles in his new medical journal and mentally bookmarking the ones with which he would go more in depth, then having a bit of a think. Of course he wasn't as clever as Sherlock. Few were. Truth be told, he probably wasn't even as clever as the children. But he did know all of then well enough. He smiled at himself then rose to put his dishes in the sink as he enjoyed what passed in their home as the air of domesticity. Arguments about texture and proper organ placement, the ticks and clanks of equipment being manipulated, thoughtful murmurs. He was almost loathe to disturb it, but, seeing as he'd come up with something that would both mostly interest them and get his kitchen cleaned up enough for him to make dinner in a couple of hours, he moved forward.

 

"Right, you three!" he called out in what all called his Captain's Voice(though obedience was the main result across the board, the children had far different secondary reactions than his husband did), glancing at his watch before shoving his hands behind his back to form the at-ease posture, "In fourty-five minutes  _or less_ , I expect this kitchen as well as you lot to be clean, redressed, and ready to move out! Upon your return, you will be inspected and, if found satisfactory, shall accompany me to enact The Great Pumpkin experiment." Dead silence as everyone sat up or stood in a rigid line, Willow on the table, then Sean on the chair and, finally Sherlock, eyes shining, posture impeccable as usual. " _Do_  I make myself clear?"

 

"YES,  _SIR_!" With bloody salutes, the children ran up to John's former room, which they shared. Another bath had been put in when they were slated to arrive.

 

"Captain Watson  _and_  an experiment," Sherlock almost purred, slinking toward him with "that" smile and "that" look in his eye. "It's Christmas."

 

"No. Don't touch me with those filthy hands." Sherlock complied, but nuzzled just below his ear in "that" spot, sending electricity down John's spine, making all the hairs on his body stand on end. He held it together, however. Barely.

 

"With what filthy thing am I to touch you?" Sherlock rumbled, voice lowered to a near whisper. When John cleared his throat, he attempted to go for 'Quiet Command' but it came out more 'Adolescent With A Hard On'.

 

"I believe," he said, continuing to look straight ahead a moment before hitting Sherlock with a look he knew would aid in his cause, "I gave you an order." Sherlock's eyes shone jade fire and, with a marginally filthy kiss to the same spot, he flounced off up the stairs to supervise and get his own appendages tidied, leaving John to adjust himself, but only after he was properly out of Sherlock's sightline.

 

John should have known better.

 

It was a proper experiment with charts and spreadsheets having to do with size and density measured by eye at the market and exactly once they arrived home with the  _twelve bloody_ pumpkins. They'd had to call for a car from Mycroft to get them all home. Well, John had to, as it was his 'idea in the first place. I don't see why I have to suffer through it' according to his beloved. He sighed and made the call, Mycroft all too keen these days now that the children were here.

 

They were all separated by number in lettered groups. Samples and photos  were taken of each part of each pumpkin. They were only convinced to eat dinner by the promise they could carve tonight despite the hour. The children came up with a list of things they wanted to depict on the surfaces. John finagled at least one traditional Jack-O-Lantern 'for god's sake' into the mix. Sherlock helped Sean draw a pattern which turned out to be his DNA. Willow diligently worked on hers on her own. Something about how her fine motor skills were further advanced than her brother's.

 

"I thought you were going to do something really scary," John protested, examining her lithe fingers manipulate the thin-tipped marker with a rather advanced ability for a child her age. She was very interested in art and insisted since she was three, that all her gifts cater to that.

 

She looked back and forth between her adored Daddy and her artwork a few times before returning to it with a sigh. "It  _is_  scary, Daddy. This is the bacteria responsible for the Bubonic Plague."

 

"Yeah, really, Daddy. You're a doctor. You should know these things," Sean chimed in.

 

"Of course," John deadpanned, putting the last of the dinner dishes away and snatching the sharp knife out of Sean's hand for the third time. "My mistake. But you should consider the scariest thing you could think of as well for one of them at least." She'd nodded and paused her current transfer of the bacterium to retrieve a fresh piece of paper. She tapped the pen to her lip then licked them in deep thought. 

 

"The scariest thing I can think of...," she muttered. Then, with an expression over which John could nearly physically see a lightbulb go off over her head, she began a drawing. Thirty seconds was all it took to break his heart. Proudly, she showed him the finished doodle, a drawing of two simple grave stones, each bearing his and Sherlock's names, respectively. She only frowned when she noticed the bit of water in his eyes and almost violently crossed them out, throwing slender white arms about his neck and showering his cheek with apologetic kisses. Nothing more was said on that particular subject.

 

It took until midnight to pry the little ones away long enough to clean their teeth and hands and change into pyjamas and go to bed. As predicted, they were asleep as soon as their head hit the pillow, however and, as Sherlock was entering the last bit of data, John tried his level best to find room in the refrigerator for the successful experiments as Halloween was still two days away and, at one point, Mrs. Hudson had visited, promising to make the ones still viable on the first of November into about a thousand pies. The task was made a bit easier by the fact that there was a separate locked refrigerator and cabinets in john and Sherlock's room in which to store experiments and reagents. If John knew children were what Sherlock needed to be diligent about it, he would have suggested it long ago, way before Sherlock announced that it was what he wanted, to John's utter shock.  To no one's shock, however, John complied and now, here they all were.

 

John cleaned around his husband, who was entering the final data and made his way back to his chair with yet another cuppa. This kind was caffeine free of course. When he realized he was falling asleep partway through the second article he'd chosen to read he dropped a sweet kiss amongst the lazy black curls on the head bent over the microscope at the kitchen table. He announced he was for bed, but the gesture seemed to snap Sherlock out of experiment mode. He stood so fast, their heads nearly collided. It was almost as if he'd been startled. Sherlock then stretched, every muscle impossibly long and enticing. John was instantly more awake than previously thought, all parts of him, by the time Sherlock was done and saying,

 

"You never kissed me hello properly." John slipped his arms around the narrow waist from behind and began the kisses on that length of alabaster neck, broken only by a few moles that he came to know as buttons and dials for Sherlock's libido.

 

"Whatever can I do to make that up to you?" 

 

With an aroused sigh, sherlock began walking toward their room slowly enough to keep John firmly in place, pressed behind him.

 

 

 

        _Looks like John's arm had been jostled by an impatient child. Whether that child was six or fourty years old remains to be seen:_

             

 


End file.
